


Invasion

by fengirl88



Series: Invasion [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Warning: Implied Incest, Warning: Implied Past Sexual Abuse, Warning: Traumatic Memory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-21
Updated: 2011-01-21
Packaged: 2017-10-14 22:49:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/154313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengirl88/pseuds/fengirl88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John accidentally triggers a traumatic memory for Sherlock.</p><p><strong>Warnings: implied past sexual abuse, implied incest, traumatic response to the triggering of memory.</strong></p>
            </blockquote>





	Invasion

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the kissbingo prompt square "body: belly". Profound thanks to kalypso, ginbitch and blooms84 for their willingness to read and comment on this one, and for encouraging me to continue with it.

They're in bed when it happens, which makes it worse. This is the private place, the place where they show each other the faces nobody else sees. The vulnerable ones. The unabashedly silly ones. The ones that look as if they've been painted by Picasso because they're lying too close to each other to focus. The ones that go beyond even Sherlock's ecstasy at the moment of deduction. Familiar and astonishing; completely known and transformed almost beyond recognition.

It could easily have happened somewhere else. God knows they've spent enough time playing and teasing and fucking on the sofa, for a start, and it wouldn't have felt like such an invasion there, because the sitting-room isn't the same.

Not that he really knows how it would have felt there.

All he knows is that it's happening _here_. The space that's just theirs has been ripped apart by something Sherlock can't control and John can't understand.

“Sherlock,” he says urgently, “ _Sherlock_.”

But Sherlock doesn't seem to hear him. He's still lying there frozen and blank-faced, staring at the ceiling.

 

It had started off light-hearted and playful, one of those times when sex can be strung out for hours and there's no hurry. John loves these leisurely sessions almost more than the can't-wait-any-longer wild fucking the minute they're through the front door.

Right now he can't imagine how they're going to have either of those things again.

It began with him tracing slow circles on Sherlock's belly, first with his fingers and then with his tongue, Sherlock making little noises of pleasure in the back of his throat, his hips bucking up towards John's mouth. John pressing his lips repeatedly against Sherlock's ridiculously flat stomach, kissing and sucking him till he groaned and then pulling away again. Sherlock cursing, tugging at his hair and pulling him down again. John laughing with his mouth on Sherlock's belly as the kiss turned into blowing a raspberry against Sherlock's skin.

He'd expected Sherlock to laugh but instead he'd gone rigid, hardly even seeming to breathe. John raised his head, surprised. One look at Sherlock's face was enough.

“What is it, Sherlock?” John asked. “What's wrong?”

“ _I don't want to_.”

The voice made John's skin crawl, because it wasn't Sherlock's. Or wasn't Sherlock's _now_ : this was a higher voice, and a much younger one. Something both frightened and insistent in the tone.

“Sherlock, you know we don't – you don't – have to do anything you don't want to,” John said, trying not to panic.

“I don't _want_ to,” Sherlock said again, as if John hadn't spoken. “Leave me alone or I'll _tell_.”

“Sherlock,” John said, louder than before. “Sherlock, look at me.”

But Sherlock said nothing.

And nothing.

Staring blankly at the ceiling. Lying completely still.

 

The voice is an adolescent's, at most, John thinks. Might even be younger. The words are a child's.

John's mind can scarcely hold the images forcing their way into it. He tells himself there are other possibilities, plenty of them. But he's pretty sure that only applies to _who_ , not _what_. The _what_ is – inescapably, isn't it? – something sexual. Sexual and unwanted, done to Sherlock. And that action, the one he'd unwittingly repeated, was part of it. Or a prelude to it.

As for who... He tells himself again that there are plenty of other possibilities. And God knows he doesn't want to believe _this_ one. But he can't get that other voice out of his head, the one that says _He's always been so resentful_. The one that talks about the feud between them as _simply childish_.

He really hopes he's got this wrong, because otherwise he's not sure what he's going to do to Mycroft Holmes.

But that's not the most important thing right now. Sherlock is.

Whatever it is that's happened, he will find a way to reach Sherlock somehow.

“Sherlock,” he says again, desperately. “Sherlock, it's John.”

Sherlock shudders violently and then is still again. He goes on staring at the ceiling but there's a flicker of something in his eyes, just a faint one.

John wants so much to believe that it's a sign of recognition. He can't be sure, though. And touching Sherlock really doesn't seem like a good idea, not just now.

He's a stubborn man, and a patient one. He doesn't know how long this state will last. But he'll go on trying to get through to Sherlock, for as long as it takes. He won't let anyone or anything, past, present or future, take Sherlock away from him.


End file.
